


An Angel, a Convict, & a Demon Walk Into a Cafe

by Istezada



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Chronicles of Riddick (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Aziraphale and Crowley make Riddick nervous, Crack Crossover, Don't copy to another site, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I totally wrote a coffee shop AU, This is what happens when I have a 30 minute drive back and forth from my therapist, What even is my brain right now?, and he doesn't even know why, apparently, pre-The Chronicles of Riddick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 12:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20097076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Istezada/pseuds/Istezada
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. There is no excuse for this.

A little more than five centuries had passed since the world didn’t end, and humanity, at large, had been busy. They’d spread to the stars, adapted to the conditions there, found new things to turn into food and booze, found new forms of life, new planets, new everything. They also remained, more or less, exactly the same as they’d been on Earth. Love, hate, and apathy; greed, generosity, and calculation; cruelty, mercy, and self-preservation; enlightenment, ignorance, and the daily grind of survival—all of it followed humanity to distant stars and unfamiliar planets.

It was _fascinating_, honestly, and wholly impossible to keep up with. New religions came and went, along with superstitions, technological advances, and on-going human evolution.

Aziraphale, for his part, had dropped the pretense of a bookshop centuries ago. Books were heavy and few people cared to spend weight on old paper when shipping between solar systems, let alone between galaxies. (Not that there weren’t lovely new books being published all the time, but most people were content with their electronic reading devices or audio recordings. He’d done several of the latter, actually, and really rather enjoyed the process. He’d been reading aloud for millennia, after all.) He still _kept_ books, obviously. His collection continued to grow—it was very convenient that he could simply miracle his books wherever he wanted them, instead of going through the trouble and anxiety of trusting people to transport them safely.

No, no more bookshop for him. Old A. Z. Fell had gone out of business sometime in the 22nd century. Now he was more of an information hub, rather like telephone operators in the early- to mid-20th century, except he refused to be surrounded by a tangle of wires and preferred to operate out of a small cafe instead. It was just him, a steadily rotating staff—was it _his_ fault that the people he hired tended to find their feet and go on to better and brighter things? indeed, it absolutely was—and the widest variety of teas, coffees, and various herbal thingies in the as-yet known universe. (On the rare occasion that a customer asked for something that he _didn’t_ have, he could always just miracle some up!) People came in for a drink, or to ask where the library was, or to inquire where they might find someone who could take care of one task or another. Some of the latter requests, he handled. Some of them, he forwarded to Crowley. Some of them resulted in the unexpected disappearance of the inquirer.

Really, he was rather fond of the arrangement.

He was not, however, accustomed to unlocking the door, shortly before dawn, moving through the back room, past the closets and lockers and pantries, and into the main room, to find someone in dark glasses staring at him from the front door when he turned on the lights.

Actually, that was inaccurate. He was quite accustomed to finding someone in dark glasses staring at him from across the room. That had been going on since Rome (no, not that one… the _first_ one). He was not accustomed to _strangers_ in dark glasses staring at him from across the room.

Aziraphale paused, head tilting slowly to one side as he took in his unexpected… visitor? He was slightly shorter than Crowley, but broader and bulkier in every possible human dimension, with a shaved head, and a predatory stillness that was disturbed only by a mirroring head-tilt (to the opposite side). For a moment, that split second of immediate gut instinct, Aziraphale thought he was an angel or demon, come to bother him for some reason. But there was nothing, at all, celestial or infernal about the strange man, just the quiet of a very large and very dangerous animal sizing up potential prey.

“Good morning,” the angel said courteously.

He hadn’t finished the greeting when the stranger moved in a sudden burst of efficient energy. One hand swept out to touch the wall controls. The lights blinked out and the cafe was plunged into total darkness.

“You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?” asked the stranger, his voice a low rumble of amusement, confidence, and threat. The barest whisper of fabrics rubbing together was the only indication that he’d continued his movement and was no longer by the cafe’s front door.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Not at all, dear boy,” he replied and resisted the urge to just… turn the lights back on. He’d known Crowley far too long to not be entertained by the theatrics. He did, however, indulge in some quiet theatrics of his own and calmly met the stranger’s eyes (unexpectedly) shining at him out of the blackness.

“… Interesting,” came the murmur.

“So glad you approve. Might I also interest you in some tea?”

Below the shimmering eyes, the stranger’s lips curled into a smile. “Tea sounds nice,” he said.

Aziraphale nodded and moved behind the counter. “If you’d be so kind as to turn the lights back on or open the windows, I’ll start the water hotting. Any sort of tea you prefer?”

The slow curve of a smile flashed into a sudden grin, all humor and shining teeth, as his visitor ghosted back to the control panel. “Surprise me.”

Something in the way the stranger moved reminded him of Crowley in the old days. There was a sinuous speed there, at odds with the man’s bulk. Grace and a light, delicate dance that expected violence—maybe welcomed it—expected to detonate, like a hidden mine, into unstoppable, unavoidable death.

Aziraphale found himself smiling as he pulled a teapot off the shelves.


	2. Riddick

The tea shop owner was… strange. Interesting, like he’d said. Contradictory in ways he doubted anyone noticed—not to put words to, anyway. At first sight, he reminded Riddick of that rich asshole from M6-117, only even softer. He looked like Ogilvie sounded. The curly-headed man’s tone was quiet, placating, and soothing. If it wasn’t for absolutely everything else about him, Riddick would have already finished categorizing him as the farthest thing from a threat on this planet.

Except that he could, apparently, see in the dark as well as Riddick. Except for the fact that his eyes hadn’t needed to adjust between the light and the dark. Except there had yet to be so much as a whiff of adrenaline or fear from the man.There was wariness, sure. There was a familiar shadow of humor. There was curiosity and an acknowledgment of Riddick’s own lethality. There was no fear. There was no fascination.

There was also _something_ in absent motion behind the man’s back. Something that Riddick couldn’t see, with or without light. It left him on edge. More on edge than usual. Riddick knew danger when he smelled it.

Dim light and unimpeded vision versus bright light and closed windows (and no chance for a merc to spot him) wasn’t even a question. Riddick slid his glasses back over his eyes and flicked the lights on, amused by the old-fashioned control panel. Most enviro controls were voice-activated these days.

“Ah, thank you,” said the white-haired man.

Riddick wound through the tables and sofas to the counter and sat so that he could see both doors and the proprietor.

No one spoke while the old man—old? his hair was white and his tech was out-of-date, but that was all that felt _old_ about him—selected a container of dried leaves and began performing the steps of brewing tea like he’d been doing it all his life. Maybe he had. Maybe there were fancy assassin schools that taught people how to make tea. Not that he felt like an assassin.

He didn’t feel like anything. He didn’t fit anywhere. And he didn’t fit in a way that was uncomfortably familiar and that Riddick couldn’t place or categorize.

It was unsettling and Riddick’s eyes flicked between his… host... and the doors in a steady rhythm while they waited for the tea to brew.

A few minutes later, the other man poured tea into two sturdy mugs, set a plate of what looked like cookies nearby, and came around the corner to sit beside Riddick.

“I’m Aziraphale,” he said and took a sip from one of the cups, face softening in pleasure for the taste.

Riddick lifted an eyebrow. “Riddick,” he answered and picked up the other cup.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, like Riddick made more sense now.

He snorted into his tea and took a sip. “You’ve heard of me.” The tea was good. Hot and sweet and strong enough to give Meccan coffee a run for its money.

“Certainly, certainly. I was, I must admit, under the impression that you were dead.”

“So was I.”

The other man’s eyes crinkled and Riddick found himself grinning back.

“Been dead before, Aziraphale?”

“Once or twice,” Aziraphale admitted readily and ate a cookie. That barely-there movement happened again and Riddick’s gaze twitched over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

There was still nothing there.

“Looking for a holy man,” Riddick said, returning his attention to the man’s face. “An imam. Word is, you’re the one to ask.”

Aziraphale studied him thoughtfully and sipped his tea. “The one from the Hunter Gratzner crash?”

Riddick took a bite of cookie. It crumbled and melted, deliciously, in his mouth. It did nothing to cool the adrenaline slamming through him. He was used to people (well, some people… a certain kind of people) knowing who he was, recognizing him, _wanting_ him. What they wanted him _for_—the potential payday or assisted suicide or, sometimes, sex—didn’t much matter; it was all the same to him. He wasn’t used to people (_any_ people) making connections about his past that weren’t in bullet points on a bounty.

“That’s the one.”

“Looking up an old friend?”

Riddick’s jaw twitched. “Something like that,” he agreed.

The front door (which he’d locked as soon as he got inside) opened suddenly. Aziraphale didn’t so much as twitch, so Riddick shifted his grip on his cup and took another sip of tea.

“Angel, you’re late op...”

Riddick swallowed his tea carefully. Two of them. Whatever they were. There were _two_ of them. At least he knew why Aziraphale felt familiar.


	3. Crowley

Crowley’d been surprised by Aziraphale over the years, too many times to count. (Though if anyone had a few years to spare and a credulous disposition, he’d be delighted to count them anyway.) His protective instinct, his positive skill with temptations and curses, the celestial steel hidden away beneath the gentle exterior he so carefully cultivated, the brutal efficiency of action (once a decision was finally reached). Over and over, throughout the centuries, Aziraphale had startled Crowley.

It had been a few decades, though, so Crowley thought he might be excused for staring at his angel who was currently drinking tea with a dead man (a very, very expensive dead man). One that was very famous in his old circles.

“Angel,” Crowley said, hands still frozen in the act of folding his glasses, even while his wings spread in instinctive threat.

“Oh, good morning, my dear! I wasn’t expecting you ‘til tomorrow.” Aziraphale looked up and his form practically flickered with delight. “I didn’t get the day wrong, did I?”

Riddick’s attention was switching between them, like he expected violence to ensue, but the curiosity on his face kept flinching in time with… the movements of their wings. Crowley, in defiance of long-standing tradition, blinked. “You… no. Angel. _Aziraphale_.”

“Yes?”

“Mind telling me why you’re drinking tea with Richard Riddick?”

Riddick’s face relaxed into a smile and he lifted his teacup in salute towards the demon. “Nice to see you too.”

“Oh, you already know each other!" Aziraphale beamed. "Splendid. Do fetch a cup, Crowley, there’s plenty of tea left.”

Tea. 

Of course. 

Crowley sighed and rolled his shoulders, letting his wings relax again (Riddick’s head tilted, ever so slightly, for the change), and crossed the room. “I swear, angel, one day you’re going to figure out how to give me a heart attack. Dining with publicans and sinners, indeed.”

“Nonsense,” tutted Aziraphale. “As if anyone could compare to associating with you.”

He snorted and pulled a mug off the shelf. “Riddick,” he said, finally greeting the man.

“Crowley.”

“S’been a while. Aguerra system, wasn’t it?” That whole thing had been a mess. On the other hand, Crowley was still amused by Riddick’s reaction to his eyes. The fugitive had just looked at him, quirked an eyebrow, said “Nice eyes.” and gone back to killing people. (He was very good at it. It wasn’t often that single humans impressed Crowley.)

The bald man nodded.

“Lynn made it out,” the demon mentioned, keeping his voice carefully casual as he watched for Riddick’s reaction. “Did you hear?”

There almost wasn’t a reaction. But Crowley’d spent too long behind his sunglasses to miss the subtle shift of Riddick’s face as his eyes widened.

“Been kinda busy.” Riddick’s rumbling voice was almost (but not quite) as dismissive as he’d meant it to be.

“Mm.”

“You two… you’re his angel, then?”

Crowley smirked—it was definitely a smirk and not anything softer than that—into his teacup at Aziraphale’s pleased expression.

“Oh, for the past several lifetimes, at least,” the angel agreed.

“Huh.” Riddick nodded like he’d just figured something out and finished his cookie. “So. The imam. Y’know where he is?”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale over the edge of his mug. Anyone that _Riddick_ was looking for was going to end up dead. The angel knew that, right?

“Helion Prime, I believe. New Mecca.”

“Don’t gotta check your records?” Riddick asked and Crowley huffed a laugh.

Aziraphale, for his part, merely looked prim. “Only if you want something more precise than that.”

“Kinda hard for someone like me to access the residential directories, tea man.”

“I’m sure you have your ways.”

The two of them negotiated briefly before Riddick slid a stack of money to the angel and the angel disappeared into the back to confirm the locations associated with Riddick’s target. A few minutes later and Riddick was gone into the early morning and Aziraphale went about the usual routine of opening his cafe, quite as if he hadn’t just been drinking tea with one of the most notorious escaped convicts in several systems.

“Angel, you do know how to keep me on my toes.”

“Nice man, wasn’t he?” mused the angel. “So polite. You didn’t tell me he was so polite.”

Crowley stared at his angel.

Aziraphale twinkled up at him.

The demon laughed helplessly and shook his head. “You should show him your eyes, if he ever comes back. We could start a club.”


End file.
